


Pulled up by the Roots

by Canon_Is_Relative



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Blindness, Episode: s04e10 Heaven and Hell, Gen, Missing Scene, POV Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 12:50:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2068878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canon_Is_Relative/pseuds/Canon_Is_Relative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scene from 4x10 “Heaven and Hell.” After discovering that Anna is an angel, Pamela asks Dean to take her home, not wanting anything more to do with the angels or any of this heaven and hell business after Castiel burned out her eyes three months ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pulled up by the Roots

**Author's Note:**

> [](http://frozen-delight.livejournal.com/profile)[**frozen_delight**](http://frozen-delight.livejournal.com/)’s astute concrit made this story ten times better than it would have been. Thank you. Written for the [disability fest](http://womenverse.livejournal.com/64023.html) challenge in the [](http://womenverse.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://womenverse.livejournal.com/)**womenverse** comm. Title is from Matthew 15:13-14. The verse Pamela quotes is Luke 6:29-40. The lilies are from Matthew 6:28.

Pamela shifted in the passenger seat and it creaked beneath her, a soft protest at the presence of a stranger. She ran her hand over the leather, soothing, like she would have done to her own wheels not so long ago. There was a flare beside her, Dean’s aura burning bright for a moment on the edge of her awareness. He’d noticed. Probably was still watching her, though she wasn't completely sure. She was good, yeah, but not completely good.

_And he spake a parable unto them, Can the blind lead the blind? Shall they not both fall into the pit?_

Gram taught her that one. Hell, all the pretty words she knew came from Gram. She taught her to read out of the musty old bible while Ma snorted and made smart remarks under her breath in the next room. As she grew, grew into her looks and her skills and her place in the world, Pamela ended up siding with her mother more often than not. Ma taught her how to hustle; how to spin Gram’s words just right to have an easy mark eating out of her hand before she even got the candles lit; how to coax a name out of the most tight-lipped ghost; how to put on a show and play to her audience when they didn’t really want to know the truth.

“I may not have eyes in my head anymore, Dean Winchester, but a woman still knows when she’s being watched.”

After she lost her eyes — after that winged monster came down from heaven and _took them_ from her — it was like Gram’s voice started up in her head again, whispering. It was like they always said but she’d never believed: lose one sense and the others step in to take up the slack. All the half-remembered nonsense from her childhood, auras and energies and working in partnership with spirits, it was like Gram was right there lecturing her over the sound of Saturday morning cartoons. Only this time she listened.

Dean cleared his throat and shifted his grip on the wheel. The sound of it made her chest ache and she folded her hands carefully in her lap. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d sat shotgun in some guy’s car. It had never been her way. Hell, this time of year, being in a car at all felt like a sin. Her bike was back home, covered up all cozy and waiting for her. _You’ve got a long wait, Sugar,_ she’d told him, running her hands over his leather and chrome. _But don’t give up on me._ Until she figured a way to sense auras at 80 MPH, she’d be stuck riding bitch. Grateful the douchebag angel had burned out her tear ducts, too.

“I, uh,” Dean cleared his throat, his palm rasping against stubble. “How you holdin’ up, Pamela?”

_Aw, Dean,_ she wanted to coo, _You worried about me, baby?_ She wanted to turn to him, give him her best sly smile, watch him start to pulse red with desire. Give her twenty seconds: she could have him pulling over to the side of the road and she wouldn’t need to see to feel like a person again.

“‘Sides the fact it appears I lost my eyes for nothing? I’m peachy, Dean.”

“For nothing?” He repeated. “It wasn’t for—”

“Save the speech, all right?” She sighed. She must’ve missed the sign for tired in the dark and was hurtling straight down the road towards _bone-weary._ “I’m not one of your hunter buddies, I’m not looking for motivation to keep fighting the good fight.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said, low and definitely not the first time those words had left his mouth, “but someone’s got to deal with this crap and we’re the only ones left.”

“Look, Dean. I’m glad you’re alive, all right? You’re a good guy, and good guys don’t belong in the pit. But this new friend of yours, this _angel,_ he burned out my eyes without a second thought and hasn’t said sorry yet, not that I’ve heard.”

She took off her glasses and rubbed the skin around her eyes. The plastic itched, she’d been wearing them too long. It was only a few hours ago that a Winchester showed up on her doorstep asking for help, but she felt years older than she had that morning.

“Look, I get it, Pamela, I do, you don’t want to be around an angel after what happened, believe me I get that. But they’re, you know, they’re _angels._ They might be dicks but not all of ‘em are trying to dick us over, you gotta believe that. Something’s coming and we are flying blind, so…” He cleared his throat, sounding embarrassed. “All I’m saying is, at this point I’m asking for help from whatever bedfellows I can get, and yeah some of ‘em are a little strange.”

“Not sure if I should be insulted or excited," she teased, but her smirk died quickly. “All right, you wanted my help. This is me helping. I’m telling you that there’s something going on here that’s bigger’n anything I ever heard of, and that ain’t a fart in the wind. I’m just gonna skip right over the obvious joke about the blind leading the blind and get to the part where I tell you that if I’m spooked, you sure as hell oughta be.”

The boy beside her was a rock, rolling downhill. Running straight and true and if you looked at him without regards to the bigger picture, he looked like he knew where he was going. His brother was a flat stone, skipping across troubled waters, giving the illusion of flying, the impression of freedom. But nothing can break gravity’s hold. They were going down, inevitably. They all were.

“I know how much you wanna believe you have a job to do in all this,” she said quietly, slipping her glasses back on, “but Dean I’m just not sure that there’s a good fight to be fought, here, not anymore.”

“Sorry?” He asked.

“You’re not,” she corrected him. “Not sorry.”

A soft laugh, filled with bitterness. “Pamela, believe me, there’s barely a thing I’ve done in this life that I ain’t sorry for one way or another.”

“We all got regrets, kiddo,” she said, fighting like hell to keep her own voice light. “Not everyone’s regrets might lead to the end of the world.”

Another flash and flare from the energy around him, a deep and throbbing hum of stark, violet fear. She reached out for him, her hand finding his thigh for a brisk shake. She wanted to tell him he could stop it all. That he could still back out, quit messing around with these forces that were so much stronger than him. He was too trusting, that was his problem. But he’d never hear her, never listen to those words. He was built on a lie, she realized all at once, the truth of it coursing up her arm from where she touched him. And believing in that lie was all that kept him going some days. The rock-solid belief that what he did would ultimately matter and that made up for how nothing else about him meant anything. She thought of her Gram’s old hands, a thousand tiny folds of velvet-soft skin, reaching for Pamela when she was at her lowest, reminding her to consider the lilies of the field.

She’d never been able to take those words into her heart; why would Dean Winchester listen to an old, blind, washed-up psychic? She’d have done him more of a service getting him to pull over. Or not pull over; road head never did anyone any harm. Well, except when it did. And hey, going out in a blaze of glory, little death meets actual death? Who knows if sparing the world from Dean Winchester wouldn’t be as kind as sparing Dean Winchester from the weight of the world.

He walked her into her house, checked the warding and the salt lines, and stood in the doorway for a moment with his lips pressed to her cheek. He was gone without another word but the sound of his car lingered, rumbling in her ears long after it should have faded.  



End file.
